


The High is Worth the Pain

by thegirlwhoknits



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: And not just on Peter's part, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Emissary in Training Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Mage Stiles Stilinski, Pain Kink, Plot, Scheming, Tattoo Artist Peter, Tattooed Stiles, also feeeeeeeeelings, general consensual roughness, nipple rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-06 07:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3125906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwhoknits/pseuds/thegirlwhoknits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is an emissary-in-training whose teacher has sent him to Peter for his first-level initiation tattoo.  The only problem is, Stiles has a kind of embarrassing reaction to pain...</p><p>ETA: this has now grown a PLOT! And FEELINGS! Peter wants Stiles to be his Emissary (and mate). He may encounter more resistance to this than he excepts...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheHatterTheory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHatterTheory/gifts).



> My very belated Steter Secret Santa offering for [snickersnackbanderhatt](http://snickersnackbanderhatt.tumblr.com). I got a little perfectionist about it!

Peter tried not to scowl at the fresh-faced kid who’d just come through the door of his tattoo shop.  He was alone for the night, and he’d been looking forward to a quiet evening working on a new piece for a client who’d recently inherited her alpha title.  Dressed in a puffy coat and examining the flash wall, this guy looked like he was probably a college student looking to get his girlfriend’s name tattooed on his ass—or crossed out.  He usually let Erica deal with those customers.  But, as she liked to tell him, glowering didn’t pay the rent, so he plastered a smile on and went to make nice.

“Can I help you?” The kid jumped a little, and Peter couldn’t help but smirk.  He wasn’t above using his werewolf stealth for his own amusement.

“Yeah, hi, I’m Stiles,” he said, pulling off a glove with his teeth and offering his hand to Peter.  “Are you…” he looked down at something scrawled on his wrist, “…Peter?”

“Peter Hale, artist and proprietor, that’s me,” he said agreeably, giving Stiles’ hand a perfunctory shake. “What can I help you with?”

“Well, Moira sent me, she said you were the guy to see about—wait, Peter _Hale?_ ” The kid’s face lit up in a blinding grin, and Peter tensed. He didn’t have a lot of positive experiences with people recognizing his name. “Any relation to Laura and Derek Hale?”

He didn’t bother trying not scowl this time. “You’re a friend of theirs?” he growled.

Stiles put up his hands, eyes wide. “Whoa, no, not really. I mean, I’m from Beacon Hills, and my bro’s a werewolf, so I know _of_ them. I’ve never met Laura, though, and the last time I saw Derek he threatened to rip my throat out with his teeth.”

Peter relaxed a little. “That’s practically his way of saying hello.  Yes, Laura and Derek are my niece and nephew, but as you may have guessed, we’re…estranged.”

“Totally cool, man, I know how that goes. I haven’t talked to my dad in over a year—he doesn’t approve of all this magic stuff.” Stiles began to shed his coat. The layers of plaid he was wearing underneath weren’t much of an improvement.

“So, you’re a student of Moira Harper’s?”

“Yup,” the kid confirmed, popping the ‘p.’ “Emissary-in-training Stiles Stilinski, that’s me.”

‘Stiles’ had to be a nickname, but that was common among magic users. True names were too powerful to throw around carelessly.

“And you’re here for…?” Peter prompted. He was starting to doubt this guy was playing with a full deck.

“Oh! Right!” Stiles fished around in his pockets for a minute before pulling out a folded, rumpled piece of paper. “I need to get my first-level initiation tattoo, and Moira says you’re the guy to see about all things magical and inky.”

Accepting the paper gingerly, Peter studied the drawing and the list of ingredients underneath it for the ink. First-level tattoos were meant to be a depiction of the caster’s inner spirit; his lip curled in amusement to see that Stiles’ was a fox which appeared to be chasing its own tail.  He’d only met the boy five minutes ago and he could already see how fitting that was.  “This shouldn’t be a problem. It’ll take me about a day to prepare the ink. Do you want to make an appointment now?”

Stiles trailed after him to the counter, where Peter flipped open the appointment book.  “Yeah, okay. Do you have any openings on Saturday?”

“Saturday’s not good unless you want to come in after closing. It’s one of our busier days, and I’ll need to be able to concentrate.”

Stiles nodded. “That’s not a problem for me if it’s okay with you. I’m kind of a night owl anyway. What time do you close?”

“Ten o’clock. You can come in around ten-thirty. The rest of the staff should be cleaned up by then.”  Peter scribbled Stiles’ name in the margin at the end of Saturday’s appointments. He didn’t mind the late hour—magical tattoos were his specialty, and they paid a lot better than flash.  At least Stiles’ tattoo didn’t need to be done during a specific planetary alignment. He’d done a tattoo for a centaur once that had to be completed in fifteen minutes before the planets moved out of position.

“Great, thank you!”  Stiles flashed him another blinding smile and started pulling his layers back on. “See you Saturday!”

The door jingled as the boy ventured back into the sharp bite of the New York winter.  Peter locked the door behind him and set about gathering ingredients, quietly humming to himself.

 

He was vaguely surprised when Stiles showed up at 10:30 on the dot that Saturday. He’d seemed like the habitually tardy type. Although if he was a magic-user, he’d probably had to train himself out of that.  Erica and Isaac were still cleaning up their stations when he came through the door in a swirl of snow, bundled up like the Abominable Snowman.

“Holy shit it’s cold out there,” he exclaimed, and immediately started shedding layers all over one of the waiting-room chairs. “I was _not_ built for this kind of weather. There’s nothing between the cold and my bones.” He gestured to his torso, now bare except for a t-shirt.  Sweeping his eyes over the boy appreciatively, Peter had to disagree with that self-assessment.  He was definitely on the lanky side, but his lean muscles were clearly defined; he might not be a work-out aficionado, but he kept in shape. A runner, maybe?

Peter was distracted from his speculation by Erica’s wolf-whistle. She vaulted over the low door separating the storefront from the tattoo stations and stuck out her hand. “You must be Stiles,” she purred, leaning forward to show off her cleavage. “I saw your name in the appointment book.  How selfish of Peter to keep you all to himself.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my initiation tattoo, so…” He took her hand automatically, clearly bemused.

“Oooh, a _mage_.” Erica’s smile grew wider.  Stiles looked like he was thinking of making a run for it. He cast a desperate glance over at Peter.

 _Desperate is a good look on him,_ Peter thought as he came around the counter and wedged himself between his customer and his overly enthusiastic employee.

“Yes, Erica, he’s a mage, and he’s here for a _magical_ tattoo, which is why he is booked with _me._ ” He injected a slight snarl into the last word, and briefly flashed his eyes red.  Her eyes flashed gold in return, and she stuck her tongue out at her Alpha as she flounced back to her station.

“C’mon Isaac, let’s leave ol’ stick-in-the-mud here and go find our own fun,” she teased, gathering her things and hustling the quieter beta out the door. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” she called as the door swung shut on her laughter.

“That’s not much of a limitation,” Peter snorted under his breath, locking up behind her.

Stiles chuckled, still looking a little dazed.  “So are all the artists here your betas?”

“Yes,” Peter confirmed, leading the way to his station, which was partitioned off at the back of the shop.  “Those were Erica and Isaac, both tattoo artists, and then there’s also Boyd, who does piercings.  His last appointment was at three, so I let him go early.  Erica’s a bit of a handful, but Isaac and Boyd are relatively well-behaved.”

“Yeah, she seems like the type to keep you on your toes.” He cast a nervous glance over his shoulder as if afraid she’d suddenly reappear.

Peter busied himself getting out the supplies for Stiles’ tattoo.  The ink had been fairly simple to mix, and turned out to be a dark purple. Not that it mattered; once the design was inked onto the mage’s skin, his magic would color and animate it.  Most magical tattoos were inert unless they were being used, but an initiation tattoo would always reflect the mental and emotional state of the bearer.

“Have a seat there and take off your shirt.” He gestured to the tattooing chair absently as he finished prepping the needle. When he turned around, Stiles was sitting on the edge of the chair, still wearing his shirt and twisting the hem in his hands.

Peter sighed. “This your first tattoo?”

The boy’s face flushed, and he averted his gaze. “No, umm…” He shoved up his sleeve to reveal a small wolf’s paw on his upper arm.  “It’s just… You’re a werewolf!” he blurted suddenly.

The alpha raised an eyebrow. “Yes. I thought we covered that when you booked your appointment?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t really think it through then, and…” He raised his gaze to meet Peter’s shyly. “I just have this sort of…reaction? To pain? And I thought it wouldn’t be a problem, cuz, you know, my pants will be on, but you’re a werewolf so you can smell stuff like that and _wow_ this is awkward, maybe I should just go.”  He started to lever himself off the chair, and Peter stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder and an amused smirk.

“Stiles, are you trying to warn me that you might get _aroused_ while I’m tattooing you?”

Stiles gave him a profoundly embarrassed nod.

“Well, I can assure you,” Peter purred, hooking a finger under the boy’s chin and tilting it up to meet his gaze, “that’s not a problem for me unless it’s a problem for you.”

“It’s _so_ not a problem for me,” Stiles breathed, tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

“Well then.” He gestured to the boy’s t-shirt again. “Shall we get started?”

“Oh, right!” He lifted the shirt up and carefully over his… _nipple rings._ Peter groaned. Oh, this was going to be the best kind of torture.

Stiles gave him a twisted grin. “Told you I have a thing for pain.”

Barely stopping himself from just reaching out to touch, Peter managed to ask, “May I?” At Stiles’ answering nod, he ran a finger over one of the rings and then gave it a light tug. The moan and sharp spike in arousal he got in response was dizzying.

“As good as that feels,” Stiles panted. “Maybe we should get the tattoo done first?”

“Right. Absolutely.” Shaking his head to clear it, Peter set to work prepping an area on Stiles’ chest, just above his heart, and applying the transfer to his skin.  He could feel the boy’s pulse through his skin, fast but steady.

Both of them were clearly exerting all their self-control as the tattoo progressed.  Peter had to pause a couple of times to breathe through his mouth and steel himself against the thick scent of arousal coming from his client.  He was impressed by Stiles' utter stillness; he clearly had excellent control for someone only at their first level of training.

By the time he finished and blotted away the excess ink and blood, they were both panting.  He held up a mirror so that Stiles could see the little fox flood with color — flame orange and creamy white, with sharp black eyes — and begin to twitch its tail.

Stiles surged up to kiss him, deep and fierce with intent.  He let the tide of lust flood his senses for a few moments before pushing the boy reluctantly away long enough to bandage the fresh tattoo with shaky hands. As soon as he was done, Stiles swung sideways on the chair and pulled Peter between the V of his legs.  He gave the kiss his full attention this time, resting his hands on Stiles’ hips.  The boy’s long, clever-looking fingers clutched at his back, and he groaned at the thought of what they could do to him.

Finally they broke apart, only a few inches separating them as Stiles panted, “Bed?”

“Upstairs,” he growled, already tugging the boy along by his belt loops. They stumbled blindly up the narrow stairs to Peter’s apartment, taking turns pushing each other against the walls to make out more.  By the time they made it to the bedroom, Peter was so hard he felt dizzy.  He led Stiles into the room, then swung him around and walked him backwards until he tumbled onto the bed.

Peter took a moment to appreciate the view laid out beneath him.  The boy's creamy skin was flushed, constellations of moles dotting it, begging to be touched.  Stiles licked his lips and raised an eyebrow challengingly.  “Planning to do something other than look?”

Peter growled and surged downwards onto the bed, snaking a hand in between them to unbutton both their pants. Somehow they managed to wriggle out of them without really moving apart.  Kneeling above him, he straddled Stiles’ hips as he pulled off his own shirt. Stiles ran his hands over Peter’s chest appreciatively, fondling his chest hair for a moment before slowly trailing downward and wrapping them around the werewolf’s hard, heavy cock.  He stroked it a few times, his fingers every bit as talented as Peter had hoped, then gathered a drop of pre-come on a fingertip. Holding Peter’s gaze, he brought the finger to his plush lips and _sucked._

A wave of arousal hit him so hard he threw his head back and moaned.  “You are such a tease,” he complained, sliding down Stiles’ body and taking one of his nipple rings in his mouth.  The boy drew in a series of sharp, panting breaths as Peter rolled the cool metal around with his tongue.  His hips jerked up involuntarily, trying to find friction against Peter’s body.

“God, Peter,” he said roughly. “That feels so good…”

Peter tugged on the other ring with his free hand, at the same time biting lightly at the nipple in his mouth. Stiles gave a loud cry, his body curving upwards like a bow. “Yes! Peter, god YES.”

In one smooth motion, Peter moved down the bed and engulfed Stiles’ whole cock with his mouth.  He reveled in the sharp, musky taste as he bobbed and sucked, giving alternate tugs to the boy’s nipple rings at the same time.  Stiles did an admirable job of holding his hips still, even as he babbled an endless stream of _yes_ and _Peter_ and _oh my god, please don’t stop_.  It seemed only a few minutes before he was coming down Peter’s throat on a long moan.

Licking his lips with a smug grin, he levered himself up to survey his handiwork. Stiles was melted into the bed, his eyes half-lidded, breathing raggedly.

“So gorgeous,” Peter rumbled. “So beautiful for me, Stiles. Perfect boy.”  He dropped kisses down Stiles’ face and chest, smoothing his hands down the boy’s sides as he came down from his orgasm.

“Peter,” Stiles whispered, watching him with dark eyes.

“Yes?”

“Fuck me, please.”

Peter felt his eyes flash, and barely restrained his claws from popping out.  “My pleasure,” he growled.  He snagged his lube from the bedside table and set about prepping the boy thoroughly.  As relaxed as he was, he could probably have gone without—especially with his pain kink—but Peter wanted to give him time to recover enough to come with Peter’s cock inside him.  He said as much when Stiles whined plaintively.

“Holy crap, Peter, yeah. I want that. Fuck.”  He started thrusting himself back on Peter’s fingers, moaning shamelessly.

“Mmmm, such a beautiful little slut for me. Makes me want to keep you here in my bed, all fucked out for days.  Naked and gorgeous, begging to be taken.”  He leaned down to drop a kiss on Stiles’ parted mouth and withdrew his fingers slowly, savoring the long moan Stiles gave at their loss.

“C’mon, Peter, please,” he whimpered, hitching his legs up and giving a little wriggle. “Been wanting this since I walked into your shop.”

Deciding his lover had probably suffered enough, despite how beautiful he looked all desperate and wrung-out, Peter slid home in one smooth, tortuously slow stroke.

“Yeeeeessss,” Stiles hissed, holding his legs open as wide as he could, encouraging Peter to go as deep as possible. “God, Peter, you feel so good inside me.  God, fuck me, please.”

He was happy to oblige, setting a quick pace of rough thrusts. After a few small changes of position, he found the right angle to reduce Stiles’ commentary to a series of _oh oh oh_ s.  He wrapped a hand, still slightly slick with lube, around the boy’s cock, determined to make him come again even as felt his own orgasm rapidly approaching.

“Come on, come for me, Stiles. You’re so gorgeous, so perfect for me. Want to see you come.”  Peter was breathless, his blood singing as he tumbled closer to the edge. Finally Stiles came with a shout, his hips bucking beneath Peter, who thrust a few more times and joined him.

They collapsed together, taking a few moments to catch their breath before Peter went to get a washcloth to clean them up.  Afterwards, Stiles turned and snuggled into him, nosing his chest hair sleepily.

“Mind if I stay?” he murmured. “Not really keen on going back out into that snow.”

“Of course.” Peter tucked the comforter around them and Stiles cuddled up closer.  He listened to the boy’s breathing even out into sleep, feeling warmer and more content than he had in years.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter woke to find himself half-buried under Stiles, who’d starfished out over the whole bed as he slept. The boy’s weight was somehow comforting rather than oppressive, like an extra blanket on a cold day. And it was cold, even in his apartment. The winter chill seemed endlessly resourceful in finding cracks to seep through.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had someone stay over, other than Pack. He wasn’t all that keen on people when he was awake, never mind trusting someone enough to be unconscious around them. But something about Stiles had allowed him to neatly sidestep all Peter’s carefully constructed defenses. And of course, the fact that he was absolutely gorgeous in bed didn’t hurt at all.

He allowed himself to drift comfortably for a bit, half-asleep and basking in the memory of the night before. Perfect, Peter had called him, and he was—just cheeky and challenging enough to be interesting, but submitting so beautifully in the end. And his skin was perfect for marking. Peter ran his finger slightly over the bruising on the boy’s shoulder and the join of his neck, fantasizing for a moment about what it would be like to put something more permanent there.

Not that that was a possibility at the moment, however much he’d like it to be. Stiles was an Emissary-in-training, and they weren’t encouraged to form romantic attachments outside the Pack they would eventually bond with. In the meantime, Peter would take what he could get, and at the moment that was round two.

He nudged the boy gently off him and rolled him over onto his back. Stiles gave a light snore and clutched at the pillow beside his head. Peter repressed a chuckle. He leaned forward and tugged at a nipple ring with his teeth, just enough to be felt, before sliding down Stiles’ body. He’d just passed Stiles’ navel when he heard the boy’s breathing change; moments later a hand found its way into Peter’s hair.

“Morning,” Stiles said in a rough voice. Peter responded by licking a broad stripe up the length of Stiles’ hard cock. “Mmm, and a very good morning, apparently.”

Peter smirked at him and lost himself in the hard weight and musky scent of Stiles' cock. Half-asleep as he was, Stiles barely held back, gripping the werewolf's hair with one hand while indulging in short, shallow thrusts. Peter moaned in encouragement. When he began to massage the head of the boy's cock with his tongue, Stiles arched backward with a long moan and came down Peter's throat.

Peter licked his lips as he pulled off, thoroughly satisfied.

"You're radiating smugness," Stiles complained lightly. "Get up here."

The wolf kissed his way back up Stiles' body, adding in nips here and there that made the boy shiver.

Stiles took Peter's cock in hand as soon as it came into reach, using those long, talented fingers to give it teasing strokes as he reached over with his other hand for the lube. 

"That's definitely the nicest wake-up call I've had in a while. Miles better than the banshee next door practicing her screams," he murmured. His strokes grew firmer and more deliberate with the addition of lube. Peter mouthed idly at the boy's strong shoulders as he bucked into the circle of his fingers.

"To be fair, you're the best company I've had to wake up to in a while as well," Peter panted after coming on a gasping moan.

They lay together, breathing in rhythm, until the drying come started to get sticky and uncomfortable. "Time for a shower," Stiles announced reluctantly. Peter began to peel himself off the bed with a series of grumbling noises.

Stiles grinned at him. "Not much of a morning person, huh?"

"Wolves are nocturnal," Peter told him haughtily.

"Born wolves, maybe." Stiles shrugged. "My buddy Scott goes for a run at six o'clock every morning."

"He was turned?" Peter asked curiously, pulling fresh towels out of the linen closet. Turned wolves were relatively rare; most Alphas were extremely selective about trusting humans with their secret. The age of technology had brought the supernatural community closer together, making it easier to share information and request aid, but it had strengthened the hunters in equal measure.

"Yeah. He was bitten by a rogue Alpha when we were sixteen," Stiles said casually as Peter adjusted the water temperature. "I was the one who figured it out, actually. We managed it on our own for about two years before Derek showed up on Scott's doorstep, all growly and scowly."

Peter stiffened. "You were sixteen? This would be, what, eight years ago?"

"Yep." He stepped into the spray, holding the shower curtain open for Peter to join him. "Why?"

"That was the same Alpha who killed my sister Talia. Laura inherited her power, which was probably why it took the Hale Pack so long to find your friend. She hadn't finished her training yet, and the transition was...chaotic."

Stiles rubbed a bit of Peter's shampoo into his hair, which made Peter's wolf rumble in satisfaction, despite the bad memories bubbling up.  
"I hope the Council caught up with him," he offered by way of condolences.

"No. I did." Peter answered, somewhat shortly. "I found him in a bar, drunk out of his skull on wolfsbane whiskey, and I slit his throat."  
He finished his perfunctory wash and stepped out of the shower, leaving Stiles gaping behind him like a fish.

 

A few minutes later, Stiles strolled out into the kitchen, barefoot and shirtless. He'd towelled his hair into messy spikes that made Peter want to run his fingers through it again.

"So that's why..." the young mage continued their conversation, making a sweeping gesture that encompassed all of Peter's home-in-exile.

Peter cracked an egg with more force than necessary. "Yes. As I was my sister's Protector, I was technically withing my rights to kill her attacker, so the Council couldn't strip me of the Alpha power. But of course, having two Hale Alphas in the territory would have practically invited civil war, so I couldn't stay. And since not many Betas are eager to join an Alpha who won his power in a bar fight, I moved to New York."

Stiles nodded. In most small towns or rural areas, being a packless wolf was the equivalent of walking around with a target on your back. The larger cities, however, were home to many Omegas or small packs, policed and protected by the Council of Weres.

"You're not packless now, though," he pointed out.

Peter's face softened a bit. He looked down at the bowl of eggs he was whisking. "No. I was lucky."

"Erica and Isaac seem like good Betas."

"They are," Peter confirmed. He poured the eggs into a hot pan and quickly took a tray of bacon out of the oven. Then he returned to the stove while Stiles rooted through his cupboards for plates and moved the bacon to drain on some folded paper towels.

"What's Boyd like?" he asked curiously.

Peter was impressed that he hadn't made a polite excuse to leave yet. Stiles seemed like a promising future Emissary, and it certainly wouldn't help his prospects to be associated with a ragtag pack like Peter's.

"Stoic," he told Stiles with a wry smile. "He saves up his words like they cost money, but he can let you know how he feels about something with just a twitch of his eyebrow. He reminds me a little of Derek, actually, when Derek was younger and less angry. He's really an ideal Second."

Stiles hummed thoughtfully, snagging a piece of bacon and popping it into his mouth while Peter dished out the eggs. "Sounds like it. I look forward to meeting him."

It was Peter's turn to be surprised. Stiles just scooped up a forkful of eggs and winked at him as he chewed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, there was supposed to be smut in this chapter but I didn't quite get to it. I'm going to try to stick to an "every other Monday" posting schedule until this is finished, at which time I'll switch to You Should Know Where I'm Coming From.

Despite his words, Peter didn't see or hear from Stiles for two weeks, until he stumbled into the shop one morning, hanging off Erica's arm and laughing helplessly.

"Look what I found wandering around in the snow!" she crowed, shoving Stiles into the shop ahead of her. "It's our wayward Emissary trainee."

"He's not _our_ anything," Peter told her flatly, refusing to look up from his sketchbook.

Stiles was having none of it. He levered himself up on the counter, pushing the book away and planting a loud, smacking kiss on Peter's very surprised face. "Aww, don't be cranky at us, Alpha. We come bearing candy!" He fished around in the pockets of his coat and pulled out a giant-sized package of Reese's cups, which he slapped down on the counter.

"Consider this an apology for staying away so long. Moira was a little miffed at me for our...encounter, and decided it would be a great time for me to quest for my Familiar." He reached back into his hood and pulled out a small bundle of tan feathers, which squeaked indignantly. He placed it on the counter next to the Reese's, where it hopped from one leg to the other and blinked large yellow eyes at him. "Peter, meet my Familiar, Waffles. She's a juvenile saw-whet owl."

"You do realize you're not attending Hogwarts, right?" Peter said, nudging the Reese's subtly away from Waffles without dropping her gaze.

Erica bounced up behind the counter. "Oh my God, she's so cute!" she squealed. She reached out to stroke the owlet with a fingertip. Waffles responded by half-lidding her eyes, which made her look positively demented.

After submitting to the Beta's attentions for a few minutes, she began to climb back up Stiles' jacket, while _continuing to stare at Peter._ She had to turn her head almost completely around to accomplish this. Peter suppressed a shudder.

"Cute isn't exactly the word I would use," he muttered.

"I know, right?" Stiles whispered conspiratorially. "Who knew something so tiny could be so terrifying? It's awesome."

Waffles ruffled her feathers and let out a questioning chirp. "Yep, Peter is an Alpha, little one." She hooted softly, blinking at Peter one more time before making her way back into Stiles' hood.

Stiles treated Peter to one of his blinding grins. "I think she likes you!"

"How can you tell?" Erica asked, reaching around her Alpha to snag one of the peanut butter cups. She offered one to Stiles.

He took it and crammed the whole thing in his mouth. "Well, she didn't claw his face, so that's a good start," he said as he chewed. "She bit the vet who tried to give her a check-up."

Peter covered his face with his palms. "I can't believe I ever found you attractive," he said despairingly.

"Hah!" Stiles scoffed. "You couldn't resist this if you tried. Anyway, I can't stay long. I was supposed to be running an errand for Moira when _this one_ ," he jerked at thumb at Erika, "kidnapped me right off the street!"

"You texted me to meet you for coffee!" Erika protested indignantly.  Peter suppressed a stab of jealousy that Stiles had texted his Beta instead of him.

"Shhh," Stiles stage-whispered, pressing a finger to his lips. "That was only so we could plot against Peter behind his back."

Taking a neat bite of a peanut butter cup, Peter smirked. "Not even a full emissary yet, and already plotting against your Alpha? I can see why you're Moira's protégé."

"Gotta keep you on your toes, Big Bad!" the boy crowed. "Alright, I'm off. See you all at the Swamp tonight!" He was out the door in a swirl of snow before Peter could say anything more.

"I thought you said he wasn't _our_ anything," Erica said knowingly, stealing another Reese's cup. "Though I notice he wasn't in a hurry to protest." She swaggered off to set up for her first client, leaving Peter along with his thoughts.

"Wait. What did he mean he'll see us at the Swamp?"

Erica's cackle was his only answer.

 

During the past two weeks, he'd made discreet inquiries among his network about Stiles. His Pack might not be respectable enough for the goody-two-shoes on the Were Council, but Peter had a reputation throughout the supernatural community as the go-to guy for information on just about anything, or anyone. He could also be counted on to hard-to-find (or less-than-legal) books and artifacts.

As it happened, Stiles was not a difficult subject to research. His background was an open book, and the highlights of it matched what he'd told Peter: born and raised in Beacon Hills, father the local sheriff, best friend Bitten at sixteen. Interestingly, his mother had shown signs of magical aptitude, but had never been formally trained beyond her family's tradition of hedge witchery. When Stiles was ten, she'd been mistaken for a rogue Emissary by some hunters, and murdered.

Peter assumed that was the source of the sheriff's objection to Stiles becoming an Emissary. What the man evidently didn't realize, though, was that if his wife had been a proper Emissary, bonded to a Pack, the hunters would never have gotten anywhere near her. The Alpha of a Pack might look like the most important member on the surface, but it was the Emissary who was the real heart of the Pack.

More important than the information he'd gathered about Stiles' past was the speculation surrounding his future. Peter had been right in thinking that Stiles was a very promising student.

"A few Packs have already talked to Moira about Courting him," one of his contacts told him over tea. Sophie was a former teacher for the Emissary Academy, now living in a retirement home in Brooklyn. She still managed to keep abreast of all the gossip; Peter always found a visit with her to be worth his time. For the cookies as well as the information.

"Anyone I know?" he asked casually, biting into a snickerdoodle.

She smiled at him knowingly over her tea cup. "Deucalion's Pack, for one. He's been keeping an ear to the ground for new blood since Julia's defection."

Peter barely suppressed a growl. Deucalion was essentially the head of organized crime in the supernatural community. His last Emissary had sold him out to the Council, and had turned up mutilated in Central Park for her efforts.  Meanwhile, Duke himself got off with a slap on the wrist.

"Down boy," Sophie chided. "Also, the Fairchild Pack was inquiring after him."

"Aren't they out in Montana?" Peter asked, surprised.

Sophie nodded. "I don't known if you heard, but Mona Fairchild recently handed down her Alpha power to her granddaughter, Lacey. Lacey's looking to 'modernize' the Pack, and wants an Emissary less stuffy than Owen Clark. He's about ready to retire, anyway."

The Fairchilds were a good, respectable Pack, but their territory was out in the middle of nowhere. Peter couldn't imagine a boy as curious as Stiles being happy out there for long.

"I take it you're interested in the boy yourself? As Emissary," she clarified as Peter choked on his tea.

He nodded, still coughing, and she continued placidly, "I think it would be a good fit. His specialties are illusion and protective magics, but he's also known to have a keen interest in research and experimentation. Duke's Pack would want an Emissary with more offensive capabilities, and the boy would do better with a less traditional Pack than the Fairchilds. I doubt you'll get Moira to agree, though. She's get her sights set high for that one."

Peter left their meeting cautiously optimistic. He had no doubt that Moira would be against his suit, but Stiles had the ultimate decision. The most his mentor could do was strongly advise against it. As a sheriff's son, Peter was sure Stiles had more sense than to accept Duke's suit. And Peter could offer him an endless supply of rare tomes and materials to research and experiment with.

And if that didn't persuade the young Emissary - well, Peter had never been above a little manipulation to get what he wanted.

 

Stiles and Erica had indeed been plotting against him. After they closed up for the night, Erica pushed him up the stairs to freshen up. "If you're not at the bar in thirty minutes, I'm giving Stiles a key!" she called up after him.

Peter had no doubt she would, but he suspected it didn't matter. If Stiles really wanted to get in, he'd probably just steal Peter's keys and make a copy. _If he hasn't already._ The fact that the thought gave him a warm feeling should probably worry him more than it did.

He changed out of his white Henley into a dark-blue V-neck that brought out his eyes, and put on a slightly tighter pair of jeans. He locked up the shop and headed down the street to the Swamp.

The Swamp was a bit of a dive, only two blocks away from the tattoo parlor, and it was his Pack's favorite watering hole. The food was surprisingly good, even if most of it was fried, and the owner kept a stock of wolfsbane-infused alcohol under the bar for his furrier regulars.

By the time Peter arrived, Erica was obviously on her second beer, leaning on Stiles' shoulder and regaling him with anecdotes about the Pack. Boyd was on her other side, mowing through a pile of cheese fries with single-minded dedication. Isaac evidently hadn't arrived yet, hardly surprising as he was the most high-maintenance of all of them.

Peter stopped by the bar to order the signature drink, a dry martini, which in this case was basically straight gin that had been poured near a bottle of vermouth. It was ordinary alcohol, but that didn't bother Peter. As Alpha he liked to keep a clear head so he could keep his Pack out of trouble. Not to mention that the way he'd acquired his power had taught him a valuable lesson.

He took advantage of Isaac's absence to slide in next to Stiles, who was nursing a whiskey sour with a bemused expression. Stiles turned his head to give him a quick peck. "Hi, Alpha," he said cheekily.

Peter growled a little. "You should really stop calling me that unless you want me to drag you out back and ravish you."

"Mmmm, 'ravishing' sounds pretty good, actually. But it wouldn't be good form for the Alpha to miss out on Pack bonding time." He winked at Peter.

"Hey!" Boyd said. "Get your own food, featherbrain!"

Waffles had taken advantage of everyone's distraction to sidle across the table and take nab one of Boyd's fries. She fluffed her wings at him and then gulped it down, ignoring his protests.

"How do you have an owl in here?" Peter asked. "Aren't they illegal to keep as pets?"

"It's just a basic SEP field," Stiles said dismissively. "If you're not expecting her to be there, you won't notice her."

"A 'Somebody Else's Problem' field? I see we've gone from Hogwarts to _Hitchhiker's Guide."_

Stiles looked pleased. "Mmm, I do love a man who knows his sci-fi." He squeezed Peter's denim-clad thigh and tilted his head theatrically onto the Alpha's shoulder.

Across the table, Boyd raised an eyebrow at them, but Peter was happy to note that it was an amused, approving expression.  The boy seemed to have won over his Pack fairly thoroughly.

Isaac sauntered into the bar just then, and grabbed a pitcher of wolfsbane beer from the bartender before joining them at the table. As usual, he looked like he'd just come from a photoshoot for designer scarves.

"What'd I miss?" he asked, snagging a cheese fry and getting his hand slapped by Boyd.

"Just Erica telling me all the embarrassing stories she knows about you guys," Stiles said cheerfully.

"She even told him about the Glitter Infestation of 2013," Boyd informed him tragically.

Isaac groaned. "Oh God. I am never going back to that club again, EVER. I think I'm going to need another pitcher of beer to wipe that memory from my brain."

Waffles tilted her head at the blond Beta and gave a questioning chirp.

"Oh! Sorry, Waffles, I forgot you haven't met Isaac yet. He's one of Peter's Betas," Stiles told her. Waffles bobbed her head at Isaac, then launched herself in a flurry of feathers onto Peter's shoulder. She proceeded to rub against Isaac's scarf, making content chirruping noises.

Stiles laughs. "I guess someone approves of your fashion sense, Isaac!"

"Hmmph," Isaac said, but he was clearly charmed by the tiny bird.

Peter found himself regarding the Emissary trainee fondly. In a few short weeks, during most of which he'd been out of touch, Stiles seemed to have wormed his way into all their lives. The Alpha was pretty sure he wasn't the only one hoping Stiles would stay.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the updated tags for bloodplay, breathplay, and general roughness.
> 
> Also, look! More porn! And it's on time! (barely)

It was a little past midnight by the time they helped Boyd pour Erica into a cab. Peter trusted his Second to get her home safely. Isaac had his motorcycle, and he'd stopped drinking after two beers, so he took off for his apartment and left Peter and Stiles alone together in the puddle of light from the bar's only window.

Peter expected a friendly good-night from Stiles, maybe some casual scent-marking if he was lucky. He didn't expect the boy to crowd in close, hook his fingers in Peter's belt loops, and sigh, "Finally. God, I missed you."

He was still processing the implications of that when Stiles caught his mouth in a kiss; one that was definitely not saying good-night.

"Mmmm," Stiles hummed when he finally pulled away. "So, are we going back to your place or mine? Because I need to get my mouth on your dick, like, as soon as possible."

Peter huffed a laugh. "Charming."

Stiles just shrugged and raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, is that not a thing you want? Because I can go and see if Isaac..."

He growled, grabbing Stiles' hand and tugging him in the direction of the shop.

"Gotcha, Big Bad. No sharing with the rest of the pack," Stiles chuckled.

Peter whirled around, walking Stiles back to press against the side of an apartment building. "No sharing," he confirmed seriously.

"Yeah. Good." Stiles was breathless, his eyes huge and dark as the wolf dipped down to kiss him slowly and thoroughly. He smelled aroused and utterly content at the same time. Peter worked a hand up under his scarf so he could feel the mage's pulse throb steadily under his fingers. He wanted to spend the rest of his life memorizing that rhythm.

He should be scared by the sudden surge of possessiveness, but it just felt _right._ And judging by the way Stiles melted against him, moaning softly, he seemed to agree.

 

It took them half an hour to accomplish the ten-minute walk back to the tattoo parlor, and then another fifteen to get upstairs to Peter's bed. Despite the fact that they kept stopping to kiss each other senseless, things felt less frantic than they did the first time.

They took their time removing each other's clothing; Peter marked every new patch of skin, while Stiles ran his fingers over Peter's tattoos. He was particularly proud of the sleeve on his left shoulder, an intricate Celtic design with stylized wolves that expertly covered the mark of his former pack.

Stiles peeled off Peter's Henley and ran his hands up the wolf's chest with just enough pressure to avoid being ticklish. Then he caught Peter's wrist and brought it up to press his lips against the pulse point.

"This is your Pack's symbol?" he asked, mouthing the plain black spiral just below Peter's wristbone. 

He nodded. His breath was stolen by the feeling of Stiles' plush lips against his skin, his tongue flicking out briefly as though he could taste the ink.

" _Revenge_ ," the mage translated, looking up at him with understanding and empathy. Not pity, Peter was relieved to see. Pity would have killed this before it began.

Stiles kissed the image one more time before shimmying out of his jeans and boxers in one go, then pulled Peter back onto the bed with him. He had a shit-eating grin on his face as he tugged his t-shirt up over his head. Peter's breath stuttered when he saw the silver chain dangling across his chest, each end clipped onto a nipple ring. The thought of his lover wearing that all night, while he talked and laughed with the pack, made all his blood rush south at once.

He reached out and gave the chain a light tug, causing Stiles to arch his back and cry out.

"I...was hoping," he panted as Peter crawl up the bed to hover over him, "we could be a little...rougher, this time?"

"How much rougher?" Peter's voice came out dark and low, and the boy shivered.

"Well, I just learned a minor healing spell and I wouldn't mind having a chance to try it out." Stiles nipped the tips of the wolf's fingers suggestively.

"God, you're perfect," Peter growled, lunging down to kiss him fiercely. When Stiles began to rut against his hip, he managed to pull away long enough to ask, "Safeword?"

"Rowan." Stiles' voice was nearly a desperate whine. "Peter, please."

In answer, the wolf ducked down and took Stiles' nipple chain in his teeth, keeping a light tension on it as he dragged his nails from the boy's collarbone to his navel, slowly letting them shift into claws. They left thin red lines behind on his milk-pale skin. When Peter reached his hips, he dug them in suddenly, making his lover's hips jerk. Stiles gave a sharp cry as the motion yanked his nipple rings, and drop of pre-come formed on the head of his dick.

"God, Peter, _yes._ That feels so good. Please, more," he begged, thrashing his head from side to side as Peter gave the chain a few more tugs. Drops of blood welled up as he moved his hands up to Stiles' neck. He groaned helplessly, dropping the chain, as the boy tilted his chin back in invitation. Peter wrapped his left hand around the pale column of Stiles' throat. He dug the claws of his right hand into the fresh wounds again, using his lover's own blood to slick up his fingers before wrapping them around the hot length of his cock.

Stiles was giving short, gasping moans around the gentle pressure of Peter's hand, thrusting up into the werewolf's grip as much as he could with Peter's solid weight pinning him to the bed. When the wolf ducked his head to Stiles' nipple and sucked, his lover's body went taut as a bowstring and he came with a strangled shout.

Peter couldn't stand it anymore. Releasing the boy's throat, he sat back on his heels and stripped his cock roughly, a combination of Stiles' come and blood serving as a tacky sort of lube. Crimson fingerprints stood out in sharp relief on Stiles' throat.

"Gorgeous," he growled, aware that his eyes were probably flashing red. "Perfect little painslut. Look so pretty covered in blood, covered in my marks. _Mine._ "  He came with a noise that was half howl, half roar.

When he came back to himself he was already licking Stiles clean, lapping up the taste of them combined as Stiles squirmed and petted his hair. When he was finally satisfied, he manhandled the boy onto his side and pulled the comforter up around them. He fell asleep with Stiles held firmly against his chest, the mage's fond whisper, "Good-night, Alpha," the last thing he heard.

 

Peter woke slowly the next morning. His body was warm and comfortable, and his eyelids felt too heavy to lift. They'd shifted around in the night so that Stiles was at his back, a long, warm line of skin against his. Gradually his contentment began to yield to the prickling sensation of being watched. He opened his eyes slowly, his body tense.

A pair of huge, yellow demon eyes stared into his, inches from his face.

He shrieked - or, as he insisted later, growled manfully - and tried to leap to his feet. Unfortunately the sheets had tangled around him in the night, and he tumbled to the floor gracelessly instead.

The sound of Stiles' hysterical laughter brought him back to his senses. Peter stopped struggling long enough to glare at him. Chest heaving with soundless mirth, Stiles pointed a shaking finger at the nightstand. Waffles was perched on Peter's alarm clock, blinking down at him quizzically. She gave a soft chirp. The alpha let his head fall back with a thump.

"I'm never going to live this down, am I?"

"Not a chance, Alpha. Not a chance."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arggh, this is so late, I'm sorry! And it's kind of a boring filler chapter too. The next one should be more interesting-we get to see what Peter's been plotting!

Moira kept Stiles busy through the rest of the winter, to the point that he didn’t even have two days off in a row until mid-March.  Some young mages would have been overwhelmed or burnt out—literally—by the pace she was setting, but Stiles seemed to thrive. His eyes sparkled whenever he regaled the pack about his accomplishments or demonstrated a new piece of magic. Peter just sat back and watched his future Emissary with pride at times like that. He really was a remarkable young man.

Peter and Stiles didn’t spend much time alone, although the mage made sure to attend pack meetings and gatherings as often as his training permitted. Occasionally, when his work was research-oriented rather than practical, he would sit in a quiet corner of the shop, paging through Peter’s impressive library of rare tomes. Waffles perched on his shoulder, occasionally chirping commentary, or on the room dividers, overseeing the tattooists at work.

The lack of intimacy between them was unfortunately necessary; forming a pre-bond with Peter would seriously impact Stiles’ prospects. Stiles wouldn’t have minded that himself—he’d made it clear that Peter’s pack was his first, if not only, choice. However, the Emissary Academy was funded in large part by courting fees. Each pack interested in recruiting a trainee to be their Emissary would pay the trainee’s mentor a fee for the privilege of courting them. After the mage-in-training bonded to a particular pack, that pack would then cover the cost of the rest of their apprenticeship, which could be considerable. After the second level, Emissary training became specialized according to the mage’s talents, and could involve rare, expensive materials, travel, or even the services of a second mentor particularly proficient in that specialty.

If Moira felt that Stiles wouldn’t bring in enough fees to be worth her while, she could choose to foist him off on a lesser mentor, and even Stiles realized what an advantage it was to be able to study with the Academy’s best mage.

So he and Peter kept an appropriate distance, for the most part, and bided their time. Peter’s network informed him that Moira was already putting out feelers in the shifter community, keeping packs who might be interested in Stiles abreast of his development. His pack, of course, was not included. She was most likely planning Stiles’ debut for the earliest possible date: right after his second-level initiation. At the rate he was progressing, that could be scarcely more than a year away.

Clearly it was time for Peter to start laying plans of his own.

His first move was to call his sister’s former Emissary, Alan Deaton.  Laura had declined his services after Talia’s death, and he’d retired but stayed in Beacon Hills as a private practitioner. Peter’s niece seemed distrustful of all mages; she and Deaton weren’t on speaking terms, and her pack didn’t have an Emissary of its own. Ordinarily that would put them at a disadvantage, but the Hale name was old and respected, and Laura had a reputation for being as fierce as she was stubborn.

That stubbornness worked to Peter’s advantage now—he didn’t have to worry about his conversations with Deaton getting back to her.

“Hello, Peter.” He could hear the wariness in Deaton’s voice after he identified himself. “I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Not since my darling niece cast us both aside,” he agreed amiably. “But don’t worry, this call doesn’t concern her.”  Alan also happened to be Stiles’ sponsor to the Academy, but that wasn’t why Peter was calling, either.

“What can I do for you?” Deaton asked. He sounded more relaxed, so evidently tensions hadn’t eased between him and Laura. Peter filed that information away.

“I was actually wondering if you could put me in touch with your sister. I have a job here in New York that I think she might be interested in.”

Alan was more than happy to relay Marin’s current number. She was a freelance Emissary, a lucrative but somewhat unstable profession, and Peter was a well-known broker. They talked for a while longer about some rare herbs the retired Emissary was cultivating, and by the time the conversation ended he and Peter were chatting like old friends.

After promising to send Deaton a Japanese mythology text in exchange for some seedlings, Peter said goodbye. He took a moment to make a note of the trade in his ledger, and then dialed Marin’s number.

Stiles came in for his second-level tattoo fourteen months later, practically vibrating with excitement and nerves. Peter wanted to strap him to the tattooing chair, and not for the usual reasons.  Waffles echoed his emotions, warbling and hopping around on the drafting table until Peter gave her a toy mouse to distract her. 

It took Stiles more effort than usual to shed his layers; he got tangled in the sleeves of his flannel shirt and managed to trip as he tried to walk and pull his t-shirt off at the same time. Finally Peter just made him hold still while he removed everything from the waist up and folded it neatly on the table. Waffles abandoned the remains of her toy and set about making a nest out of the flannel.

“So, this is it,” Stiles said, squirming in his seat.

“Your training is hardly over,” Peter commented, deliberately missing the point. Stiles made a face at him and flopped his head back. “Hold still while I apply the transfer, dammit.”

The smell of Stiles’ arousal drifted up as Peter pinned him to the chair with his free hand. Peter grinned at him. “Or we could celebrate first and tattoo after,” he suggested, leaning forward to mouth at a nipple ring.

Stiles gave a quiet moan and arched into the touch for a moment before reluctantly pushing him away.  “We can’t,” he said regretfully. “Moira’s scheduled my debut for next weekend, and we’re dangerously close to a pre-bond as it is.” He ran his fingers lightly over Peter’s cheek. “Just a few more weeks, Alpha.”

Peter closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, willing his body to calm. Stiles was right—just a little more patience, and all his plans would pay off.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter comes face to face with Moira, and is left to grapple with some uncomfortable truths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up a day late with Starbucks* 
> 
> Sorry for the delay! Work has been CRAZY. The action's picking up now! You may have noticed that I've added a final chapter count; that may change a little depending on how I break things up, but we're definitely past the halfway point. I have a little one-shot epilogue planned as well, and then I'll be moving on to You Should Know Where I'm Coming From.
> 
> I am so thrilled with how much attention this fic has been getting, and your lovely comments! I hope the rest of the story lives up to your expectations.
> 
> Now, who ordered the Pumpkin Spice Latte?

Peter finished tying Stiles’ tie and turned to the mirror to straighten his own.

“How is it you’re making me feel underdressed for my own party?” Stiles complained, waving a hand at the alpha’s immaculate tux and then his own off-the-rack suit.

“I did offer to take you shopping.” Peter shrugged. “Besides, the burden is on the Alphas to try and impress you. Your talents speak for themselves; as long as you’re presentable, it doesn’t really matter how you’re dressed.”

“Gee, thanks. A simple ‘you look fabulous’ would have sufficed.” Crowding up against him, Stiles hummed thoughtfully. “You know, if you’re trying to impress me, being naked might work better.”

Peter allowed him one kiss, tongue dipping shallowly past his lips, before smoothly turning away. “I have a rather different display in mind for tonight. I want to make sure you’re aware of _all_ the advantages of becoming a member of my pack.”

“I dunno, the benefits so far have been pretty good.” Stiles leered, then paused, showing a flicker of concern. “Wait, what kind of display are we talking about? Am I gonna get in trouble with Moira?”

“Moira will have no grounds to complain,” the Alpha said cryptically. He gathered his soon-to-be Emissary in his arms and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “You do look fabulous, by the way. That color makes your eyes positively glow.”

Grasping Stiles’ shoulders, Peter spun him around and gave him a gentle shove toward the shop door. “Now go. We can’t afford to be seen arriving together, and I still have some business to attend to. I’ll find you when I arrive.”

Stiles squinted at him suspiciously, but allowed himself to be herded out the door. As it swung shut behind him, Peter pulled out his phone, making sure the boy was firmly ensconced in a cab before sending a flurry of texts, making sure every detail of his plan was in place.

This would be a courting display New York wouldn’t soon forget.

 

Sliding comfortably into the swirl of fashionably dressed Alphas, Peter sidled his way over to the bar while keeping a sharp eye out for Stiles. He could just imagine the deer-in-headlights look the boy must be sporting by now. The rooftop garden of the Academy was unusually packed for this type of event, and although Stiles wasn’t the only trainee debuting that night, Peter was willing to bet that the majority of Alphas were here to at least get a look at him.

The bartender handed him a heavy crystal champagne flute, and Peter regarded it critically before taking a sip. The Academy—and most likely Moira—had obviously pulled out all the stops.

  
When he looked up from the glass, his gaze caught on Moira’s sharply poised figure across the lawn. As if his thoughts had summoned her, she turned and began to gracefully make her way in his direction. The crowded parted for her like a sea, and Peter barely had time to steel himself before they were face to face.

“Peter Hale, what a surprise.” Her green eyes studied him, bright against the deep brown of her skin. “I had a feeling that you’d turn up at Stiles’ debut.”

“Like a bad penny,” Peter agreed, his smile all teeth. He cursed himself inwardly for not being better prepared. It was easy to dismiss the disapproval of Stiles’ mentor in the abstract; dealing with the woman herself was another matter. She had been the most powerful Emissary of her generation, serving the Lee Pack for thirty years before shocking the supernatural community with her retirement. Her regal presence dwarfed that of the Alphas around them. “You look lovely.”

‘Lovely’ was a woefully insufficient word. Her green and grey gown flowed around her like an extension of her magic, and he suspected some actual spellwork had been involved in the intricate braided pattern of her hair.

“Thank you.” She accepted the compliment with a gracious nod. “And I suppose I can see why Stiles has found you so…distracting.” Picking up a glass of red liquid—he hoped it was wine—she moved toward a quieter part of the garden, motioning for him to follow her.

Peter trailed along in her wake, trying to reassure himself that if she wanted to kill him, she’d find a subtler time and place. A pair of Alphas hurriedly abandoned some wrought-iron chairs as they approached. Moira settled into one without paying them any mind. Peter sat across from her and waited.

“Now that we’ve dispensed with the pleasantries, we can speak plainly. I understand that you intend to court my trainee; I feel obliged to tell you that your fee would be wasted.” She punctuated this with a sharp tap against the rim of her glass. The crystal pinged. “Stiles will not choose to join your pack.”

Setting down his champagne before the force of his grip broke the stem, Peter gritted out, “I don’t believe that’s your decision to make, Ms. Harper. The rules of the Academy and the Council forbid you from influencing Stiles’ choice.”

“From directly influencing his choice, perhaps. But not from showing him the common sense of the situation. We both know that your pack can’t give him what he needs, Peter.” She leaned forward, her gaze pinning him to his seat like a bug. “If you truly care for him, you will give him a chance at the future he deserves. He may think he’s happy with you now, while he’s preoccupied with his studies, but what will he do with those skills in your service?”

She settled back again, and her voice was softer when she continued, though no less firm. “I know you think that I underestimate your importance in our community. I don’t. I’m not so ruled by convention as to assume that the circumstances of your Alphahood make you weak, or cowardly. But face facts, Peter: Stiles will be wasted in your pack. You can offer him endless research materials, that’s true, but eventually he will want to put that research into practice. He’s not the kind of young man to be content with quietly gathering information and spinning webs of intrigue.”

Peter shifted uncomfortably in his chair, picking up his glass and taking a sip before speaking. “And whose pack do you have in mind for him, Moira? Who are you hoping to impress with this grand display? Deucalion Argyris?”

Moira shuddered. “Certainly not. Despite what you may think, Peter, I’m not in this for my own gain. Stiles is very special, and I truly want what’s best for him. Can you say the same?” Having clearly said her piece, she rose and moved back into the eddying crowd without a backward glance.

Draining his glass in one swallow, Peter stared into the empty flute, feeling suddenly adrift.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good lord, I'm sorry this took me so long! I'm already working on the next part, and I really do have it all plotted out in my head. Thanks for your patience! And super thanks to Mar for her last-minute beta!

A commotion near the entrance finally pulled Peter from his thoughts. He didn’t need to push through the throng to see who’d arrived; the whispers passed between partygoers told him that Deucalion and his Second, Kali, had arrived to look over the new Emissaries.

He kept to the edges of the crowd that formed around the newcomers, searching for Stiles. If he knew the boy at all, he’d be using this opportunity to grab some peace and quiet. He found him at the edge of the garden, peering over the wall at the city.

“Not thinking of jumping, I hope,” Peter murmured. Stiles didn’t turn, but the corner of his mouth curled up. Waffles chirped a greeting at Peter and fluffed her feathers, her sign that she was willing to accept scritches. He obliged, even though he found her half-lidded look of pleasure one of her more disturbing expressions.

“Not jumping, but the idea of pushing someone has occurred to me more than once tonight. Some of these Alphas seem to think that their offers are as good as accepted. Moira actually had to break up Mo Zimmerman and Ylsa Pajari when Mo’s Second popped his claws.” Waffles hopped down to perch on the wall, and Stiles absentmindedly scratched under her beak. “Moira’s been looking like the cat who got the cream all night, although I get the feeling she was expecting someone who didn’t show.”

Peter chuckled drily. “Well, if she was waiting for Deucalion, she’s in for a show. Come on, my dear, time to claim our front-row seats.”

Ignoring the boy’s questions, he took Stiles’ elbow lightly and steered him to the heart of the crowd. Deucalion was holding court near the bar with Kali, listening to a prospective Emissary—Karen, Stiles informed him in a whisper—and her mentor babble on. It seemed more like the girl was wooing the Alpha than the other way around. Despite what had happened to his Pack’s former Emissary, Duke was widely considered a catch: his Pack was wealthy and powerful.

_And flashy,_ Peter thought derisively. He’d no personal grievance with the Alpha, more a philosophical distaste. Deucalion flaunted his power and wielded it capriciously, without consideration for the consequences. He counted on his wealth and connections to keep him safe, but they would do nothing to help him tonight.

He saw Moira swimming through the crowd like a shark, as Kali whispered something in her Alpha’s ear and peeled off to the bar for drinks. Peter smirked, but the expression was hollow. His conversation with Stiles’ mentor was still fresh in his mind, posing questions he was doing his best to ignore.

The young Emissary and her trainer fell silent and stepped back at Moira’s approach, deferential as peasants before a queen.

“Alpha Deucalion, welcome.” Moira’s voice rang through the crowd. “We were beginning to think you’d never arrive.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it, Mentor Harper. I’ve heard there’s some exceptional talent here tonight.” Duke’s eyes focused sharply on Stiles, and Peter held back a growl. In his peripheral vision he saw Karen preening, oblivious to the Alpha’s shift in attention.

He sipped at the drink Kali offered him, listening politely as Moira gave a concise introduction of each trainee. “…And, of course, my own trainee, Stiles Stilinski,” she finished.

Peter’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket just as Stiles began to reluctantly step forward. Peter moved with him, fielding Moira’s unimpressed stare with one of his own.

Duke just looked amused. “Are you sure this one’s not already taken, Moira? Alpha Hale seems a touch possessive.” He sipped at his drink, seeming untroubled by the possible competition.

“I assure you, Stiles’ options are completely open—” She broke off as a new wave of murmurs swept the crowd.

Deucalion coughed slightly and frowned into his drink, just as a pair of Council enforcers pushed their way through the crowd. Peter drew Stiles back with a light touch to his wrist. The rest of the crowd stepped back with them, and a hush fell.

“What is going on here, gentlemen?” Moira’s voice seemed amplified by the sudden silence.

The taller enforcer bowed slightly to her. “Apologies for the disruption, Mentor Harper. We’ve come for Deucalion Argyris.”

“And what business do you have with _Alpha_ Argyris?” she asked, stressing the title.

The enforcer flushed and stammered, “I…that is, we…we’ve come to arrest him?”

“Really, the Council never tires of harassing me,” Duke drawled, although he looked a little pale. “What trumped-up charges have they come up with this time?”

Kali spoke up for the first time as she took Deucalion’s glass from him. “I think you’ll find they’re not trumped up this time, _Alpha._ ” She sneered the word in a mockery of Moira’s tone. “I imagine that these fine gentlemen have come to tell you that the Council has raided all your properties and seized countless shipments of contraband.”

“That’s impossible,” the Alpha scoffed. “I’m the only one who has a key to those wards.”

Kali pulled a chain from under her shirt and dangled the attached pendant under his nose. “Not quite. Julia once showed me how to duplicate a ward key, and I made a copy of yours while you were passed out on wolfsbane vodka a few weeks ago. You remember Julia, don’t you? The woman you ripped apart and left to die alone in some alley?” Her eyes were bright with rage, and the hand clutching the pendant sprouted claws.

The enforcers’ eyes flickered from her to Deucalion and back again, as if unsure who to restrain.

“What—” Duke broke off into a fit of coughing, almost doubling over “—do you care about some human?”

“SHE WAS MY MATE!” Kali roared, lunging for him. He stumbled back, his eyes flashing fitfully as he tried to shift but couldn’t. The nearest enforcer held her back, his muscles straining with the effort. Meanwhile, Deucalion fell to his knees, now coughing up black gunk.

“What did you do, Kali?” he whispered hoarsely.

Kali’s face twisted into an expression that was at once triumphant and insane. “I laced your drink with a rare strain of mistletoe. It won’t kill you, but you’ll suffer for a long time before anyone manages to find the antidote. That’s just a small taste of I’ve suffered, but hopefully the Council will find an even worse fate for you.”

The enforcers looked to Moira for approval, and at her slight nod they began to haul both Alpha and Second out of the party. The crowd stood stunned for a few more minutes, then broke out in a cacophony of gossip and speculation.  Peter took advantage of the confusion to herd Stiles back toward a quieter part of the garden.

As soon as they were alone, Stiles turned to him, wide-eyed. “You set that up, didn’t you? _That_ was your courting gift.”

The wolf examined his claws with a small smirk. “I may have contributed to the situation somewhat.”

“But wait—there’s no way Kali could have made a duplicate ward key, even if Julia showed her how. That’s very delicate magic; only an experienced Emissary would be able to do it,” Stiles pointed out.

“I may have also put Kali in touch with such a person,” Peter admitted, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “But of course, we didn’t want to risk another Emissary to Duke’s wrath.”

Stiles laughed. “Okay, I admit it, I’m impressed. You didn’t have to go to all that trouble, though—you had me at first scowl.”

Hooking his thumbs into Stiles’ belt loops, Peter pulled him closer and buried his face in the boy’s neck. “Just making sure it stays that way,” he murmured.

 

Two days later, Stiles burst into the tattoo parlor in a whirl of feathers and leaves. Erica glanced up briefly from the butterfly she was tattooing on a wholesome-looking brunette, and Boyd raised a hand in greeting without pausing in the novel he was reading.

Peter straightened slowly from where he’d been hunched over his sketchbook, eyeing Stiles warily, but the Emissary didn’t seem to notice.

“That’s it!” He thumped his backpack down on the counter, then hauled himself up to sit next to it. “I am _done_ with all this Courting business. I know Moira wanted me to give it a chance for a few more weeks, but if I have to watch one more Alpha posture about how much status his pack can give me—as if I _care_ —I’m going to rip someone’s throat out myself.” He twisted around to plant a quick kiss on Peter’s lips. “I’m just going to tell Moira to accept your offer and be done with it. Then we can celebrate.”

He grinned widely, but his enthusiasm quickly waned in the face of Peter’s silence. “Peter, what’s wrong?”

“Stiles…” Peter’s eyes dropped to the counter as he searched for words. “I haven’t put in an offer.”

“What?” Stiles stared at him for a moment. “What do you mean you haven’t put in an offer yet? Is the shop having cash-flow problems? Because fuck Moira, I don’t care if you put up five dollars, it’s not like she’s gonna starve.”

“It’s not the money, Stiles.” Peter sighed. “I just…I think we should talk about whether joining this pack is really the best thing for you.”

The shop fell into total, abrupt silence. Erica even shut off her tattoo gun and sat gaping at her Alpha.

“What the _FUCK,_ Peter—” Stiles started. His rant was cut short by the bell above the door ringing as someone entered. He turned to tell them to fuck off, they were fucking _busy_ , and almost fell off the counter. “Dad?”

Behind him, in an identical tone of shock, Peter said, “Laura?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm... I wonder who Moira was waiting for at the gala? *looks innocent*


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know y'all are hating me right now. This...will not help. Sorry! :D

“Hey, Uncle Peter.” Laura gave him a grin with slightly too many teeth. Derek, lurking behind her, scowled harder.

Stiles was busy taking his father’s coat and herding him into one of the brown leather chairs in the waiting area. “Dad, what are you doing here?”

The sheriff frowned, clearly uncomfortable with the audience, but answered, “I came to apologize, Stiles. I’ve had some long talks with Laura here, and with your mentor—”

“Wait, Moira called you? She never told me about that.” Stiles frowned.

“Actually, she came to Beacon Hills, to talk with both of us,” Laura said, sitting down next to him on the loveseat. “She’s very concerned about your future.” She didn’t glance at Peter as she spoke, but her meaning was clear.

Stiles _did_ look at him—glared, actually. “Well, that makes two of us.”

His father eyed the two of them before continuing. “Well, as I was saying, I’ve talked to Alpha Hale and Ms. Harper, and they set me straight about this whole Emissary thing. I know this isn’t something you just decided to do on a whim, and that it’s important to choose the right pack.”

“A pack that can keep you safe,” Laura said.

“And perhaps a little closer to home?” The sheriff looked hopeful, and Peter could see where Stiles got his puppy eyes from.

Derek cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should talk about this somewhere else? I can stay here and bring Uncle Peter up to speed.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Laura stood and offered Stiles a hand. “I’m sure Peter has better things to do, like running this…charming little shop. Derek, please go outside and hail us a cab.” She came up to the counter while Stiles pulled on his coat and talked quietly with his father.

“It was nice to see you again, Peter,” she said coolly. “I’ll be sure to keep you updated on how Stiles is settling in with our pack. Moira tells me the two of you have been rather friendly.” She bared her teeth in a thin mockery of a smile, and Peter barely restrained the urge to leap over the counter and go for her throat.

Instead he offered a small smirk in return. “I wouldn’t be so sure of your welcome, dear niece.”

“No?” She raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly over her shoulder at the sheriff wrapping his son in a bear hug. “It seems clear to me who’s got the stronger hand. Take care, Uncle.” She headed for the door, Stiles and his father in her wake.

“Stiles!” Peter called. He couldn’t afford to let the boy leave on such a sour note.

Stiles didn’t bother to turn around. “We’ll talk later, Peter,” he said flatly. The door clicked shut behind him.

Isaac choose that moment to wander out from the back office, where he’d been taking a nap. He paused in the doorway and took in the strained silence. “What’d I miss?”

 

Erica made an appointment to finish up her client’s tattoo at a later date, although from the way the girl scurried out the door Peter suspected she’d go through life with a half-finished butterfly on her ankle instead. His beta turned the lock behind her and flipped the sign to “Closed,” then turned on him.

“Explain,” she ordered.

He spent the next half-hour summarizing his confrontation with Moira and subsequent decision to make sure Stiles knew what he was getting into with Peter’s pack before he put in his offer.

“So, in other words, you let Stiles’ mentor play on your insecurities so you’d give up and let her sell him to the highest bidder?” Erica asked.

Peter growled. “I was _trying_ to help Stiles make an informed decision before he blindly made a lifetime commitment based on great sex!”

Erica gaped at him. “My god, you seriously think this is all about your dick, don’t you? Have you even _met_ Stiles? He doesn’t care about safety, about power. If he did, you think he’d have spent every spare moment the last two years hanging out with us? And I’m not even going to address the inherent narcissism in that statement.”

“He wants family,” Boyd said quietly. “He’s loyal, and he wants a pack who deserve that loyalty. Who appreciate it.”

“And you,” Erica jabbed a scarlet fingertip at Peter, “you just shit all over that. So you better start apologizing, groveling, doing whatever it takes, or we are gonna lose the best thing that’s ever happened to this pack.”

The Alpha bit back a knee-jerk response and nodded instead. “I will.”  Then he turned on his heel and headed for the office. The first stage of any operation was gathering intel, and right now he had a Laura-shaped hole in his map of the situation. It was time to fill that in.

 

His first call was to Alan Deaton. They’d built up quite a rapport by now, and since he still lived in Beacon Hills, he should have firsthand insight into Laura’s pack. After exchanging pleasantries, he broached the subject directly. “What can you tell me about my niece’s pack? I understand you’re estranged, but anything you could tell me about her reputation in the community might be helpful.”

“Why the sudden interest?” There was a tiny shift in the man’s enigmatic tone; Peter couldn’t tell if it was curiosity or wariness.

“She’s trying to convince Stiles to be her Emissary”.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t allow that to happen,” Deaton said after a moment of grim silence.

Peter gritted his teeth. “I’m trying not to, Alan. But it would really help if you could give me any kind of ammunition, especially something I could bring to the Council.”

“Unfortunately I can’t offer you anything that concrete,” Deaton told him regretfully. “The Hale pack’s reputation in Beacon Hills is technically spotless. Laura’s known for running a tight ship. Her betas keep to themselves, and any supernatural threats are dealt with quickly and quietly. They’re on friendly terms with the sheriff’s department, and Laura has appeared at campaign events for both Sheriff Stilinski and the mayor.”

“But that’s not the whole story.” Peter realized he was drumming his fingers on the desk and forced himself to stop.

The other man sighed. “I don’t think so, but again, there’s nothing that can be proven. Her betas don’t just keep to themselves—they’re rarely seen outside the compound she’s built. Scott McCall joined her pack a year ago, and his mother hasn’t seen him in six months. Laura claims he’s doing special training, and the sheriff backs her up. Derek runs all the errands for the pack, and he’s not exactly chatty with the locals.”

“That’s unusual, for a Second to be tasked with running errands,” Peter mused. “Those jobs generally fall to the lowest-ranking members of the pack.”

“Yes. Also, there are some rumors among the supernatural community that so-called ‘threats’ are dealt with a bit _too_ quickly. It seems that Laura advocates a ‘shoot first’ strategy, which would be in keeping with her paranoia since her mother’s death. Unfortunately, that’s all I can tell you right now.”

Peter hummed thoughtfully. “Thank you, Alan. I’ll keep you apprised of any developments.

He hung up with Deaton and began making a few calls to other contacts, with much the same results. At around seven o’clock, he received a text from Stiles that made his heart unclench a little bit.

_I’m still mad, but I love you. It’s nice to see my dad but it doesn’t change how I feel._

He texted back immediately,

_I love you too, and I’m sorry._

He didn’t hear anything more from Stiles that night, which didn’t surprise him. He was probably spending time catching up with his dad. Although he was deeply suspicious of Laura and Moira’s motives in reconciling the two, he was happy for Stiles. Peter knew Stiles missed his father and his best friend, even though he didn’t talk about it much. However, if Moira thought that would be enough of an incentive for him to join Laura’s pack, she was underestimating Stiles’ independent streak. Even aside from her recent paranoia, Laura had always been bossy and hidebound, two things that would rub Stiles like sandpaper.

 

Around nine the next morning, Peter got another text from Stiles, this one more terse.

_Need to talk. In person. At the shop in 20?_

He frowned at his phone, trying not to jump to any conclusions.

_See you then,_ he replied.

He finished up replying to a few e-mails from clients looking for rare books or items, then padded down the stairs to the shop. Stiles was already there, in the same flannel shirt he’d been wearing the day before, looking like he hadn’t slept at all. More surprisingly, Derek was him, fiddling with the too-long sleeves of his leather jacket. Without a word, Stiles rounded the counter and hugged Peter tightly, burying his head in the Alpha’s chest.

“I get what you were trying to do, but for the record I still think you’re an idiot.” Then he pulled away and his expression turned grim. “We need to talk.”

“Well, that conversation starter never ends well,” Peter said.  Stiles went to the front of the shop and began to pace. Peter followed him and leaned against the counter. Derek still said nothing.

“The thing is, Peter, I’ve accepted Laura’s offer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try not to leave you hanging too long! The next chapter is half written!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fight scenes are not my strong point, so I apologize if any part of this doesn't make sense.

For a moment, Peter felt like he couldn’t breathe. He suddenly realized that through everything, he’d never really doubted Stiles would choose his pack. He’d just wanted Stiles to convince him that his fears—the doubts Moira had instilled in him—were unfounded.

He drew in a breath when the room started to blur. “No, I understand. Your best friend is in her pack, you want to be close to your father. It makes sense, but there’s things you don’t know—”

“No!” Stiles said abruptly. He grabbed the Alpha’s shoulder and stared him straight in the eye. “Peter, I love you. Yeah, I’m glad my dad and I are talking again, but I don’t need to live next door to him. And Scott… Peter, you have to hear what Derek has to say.”

Peter glanced over at his nephew, who looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. He’d assumed that Laura sent him along for security purposes, not trusting her uncle not to—what? Kidnap the boy and run? Derek just glowered back at him, the silence stretching on until Stiles kicked him lightly.

“You know, for him to listen you kinda have to talk, Sourwolf.”

Peter raised an eyebrow at the nickname, but Derek just rolled his eyes. “Laura’s insane,” he said bluntly. “She’s been paranoid ever since Mom died. I don’t think she was ready for the Alpha power, and it’s only gotten worse. First she kicked Deaton out of the pack. Since he refused to leave Beacon Hills, she has betas follow him everywhere.

“She was convinced that having Scott as an omega in her territory was a threat. She couldn’t go after him the way she did the others, because he and his mother are so close to the sheriff.  So she convinced him to join the pack, pulled out all the stops.  Once he was in and he figured out how nuts she was, she basically imprisoned him in the compound, threatening to kill his mother if he tried to talk to anyone without her as a go-between.”

Derek sat down heavily on the loveseat, looking like the length of his speech had exhausted him.

“I figured as much,” Peter said into the silence, then waved off Stiles’ incredulous squawk. “I just spoke to Deaton last night. I was planning to talk with you about it today anyway.” He sat down in one of the leather chairs and gestured for Stiles to take the one opposite him. “So, what’s your plan?”

Stiles sighed heavily and slumped back, only to spring up again quickly when an outraged squawk came from the hood of his sweatshirt. Waffles hopped out, glaring balefully, and fluttered down onto a stack of flash binders and magazines.

Derek made a choked-off noise, and Peter realized he was trying to hold back a laugh. Maybe his nephew wasn’t a complete stick-in-the-mud after all.

Rolling his eyes at Derek, Stiles gave his familiar a conciliatory scritch and then folded himself back into the chair. “The plan is to go back with Laura, check out the situation from the inside, and find a way to get Scott out of there.”

“And after that?”

Stiles opened his mouth to speak and then stopped. As Peter suspected, he hadn’t thought of the consequences beyond making sure his friend was safe.

“You do remember that by accepting Laura’s offer, you’ve made a magically binding, lifelong commitment to her pack, correct? How do you think she’s going to feel when she discovers that you’ve released someone she regards as a threat? You might look to Julia Baccari as an example of what happens to Emissaries who betray their Alphas.” Peter watched the implications of that sink in.

“I’m going to challenge Laura,” Derek spoke up, a look of grim determination on his face. “Once I’m Alpha, I can release Stiles from his commitment, and he can join your pack.”

Peter rubbed a hand over his face as he searched for a diplomatic way to say that the two of them were complete idiots. Taking a deep breath, he tried, “Assuming, for the moment, that you are in fact able to beat a half-insane, experienced, and paranoid Alpha in a formal challenge, do you actually have any desire to be the Hale Pack Alpha, Derek?”

“No,” he admitted, but then continued stubbornly, “but I can pass the Alpha power on to Cora as soon as she’s of age.”

Peter tilted his head back and closed his eyes, praying for patience. Apparently Waffles took that as an invitation to hop onto his lap and begin crawling her way up his shirt. When he sat up again, she nestled into the crook of his neck and chirped happily.

“As impressively well thought-out as this plan is, may I suggest an alternative that doesn’t involve the two of you being horribly killed?” He could see Stiles trying not to bristle at the obvious sarcasm in his tone. “I can challenge Laura, and _when_ I win, we can go back to Beacon Hills and begin setting things back to rights. This way, a seasoned Hale Alpha is in charge, Derek can become my Protector, a position I’m sure he will be well-suited for, and Stiles will be closer to his friends and family as my Emissary. Everyone wins, and it even saves me paying a separate courting fee.”

“Oh thank God,” Derek breathed, then darted a guilty glance at Stiles. “I’m sure your plan would’ve worked, Stiles, but I _really_ don’t want to be Alpha.”

 

Peter insisted that Stiles go home and behave normally for the time being. He didn’t intend to lose, but there was no point in turning Laura’s suspicions towards her future Emissary. The whole point of this plan was to keep Stiles out of the middle.  After they left, he called together the rest of the pack to explain the situation to them. If—when—he defeated Laura, she would be stripped of her Alpha power and her territory would be transferred to him.

“Of course, if you don’t want to follow me to Beacon Hills, I will release you from the pack. I understand this wasn’t what you signed up for,” Peter told them.

“How many tattoo parlors are there in Beacon Hills?” Erika asked. “Are we gonna have to take down some competition?”

He smiled slowly. “I’m sure there’s room for one more.”

While his betas crowded around Isaac’s laptop to look at real estate listings for Beacon Hills, Peter drafted a formal Challenge. Then he sent Boyd to deliver two copies, one to Derek—as Laura’s Second—and one to the Council, so they could appoint an Emissary to arbitrate.

The Council would negotiate a time and place with the Seconds, and then the arbiter would oversee the challenge itself to ensure it was conducted fairly. Unless either party could prove right of revenge, or some other offense, the fight would last until one of them surrendered. Peter was almost glad his research hadn’t turned up anything actionable against Laura; he didn’t relish the thought of having his niece’s blood on his hands, however obnoxious she might be.

It would probably take the Council a day or two to set up the challenge, after some mandatory attempts at negotiation. Until then, there was nothing to do but wait.

 

In fact, it only took the Council two days to arrange things, which surprised Peter until he heard who their appointed arbiter was.

“Moira Harper?” Boyd raised an eyebrow. “I thought the Council was supposed to appoint someone impartial.”

“She’s not really an Emissary anymore, either, is she? I mean, she’s retired,” Isaac pointed out.

Peter frowned at the paper in his hands, resisting the urge to crumple it. Or light it on fire. “Her credentials are still good,” he replied absently. “And she probably pulled some strings to make sure she had a hand in this. Still, there’s nothing she can do to directly compromise the fight without ruining her reputation. As much as she dislikes me, I don’t think she’ll be willing to go that far.”

Stiles wasn’t much happier about the situation.

_I don’t think she’s got it in 4 u the way u think, but she really likes Laura.  :(_

In the end, they decided to let the appointment go uncontested. If Peter complained, it could take weeks to get the Council to appoint a new arbiter, which was just more time that Stiles would be at risk.

 

The challenge was held on Council-owned land outside the city, heavily wooded and secluded from the public. Spectators were limited to a few Council officials, the arbiter, and the combatants’ respective packs. Stiles was there, as Laura’s new Emissary, as well as Derek. The sheriff, being a civilian, wasn’t. According to Stiles, he was upset about the fight and had nearly caused a scene when he’d been told he couldn’t be present. Stiles and Derek had managed to calm him down, although Stiles vetoed Derek’s idea to tell him the real reason for the Challenge.

_He’d just want 2 charge in and try to fix things himself, and Laura might decide he’s more trouble than he’s worth._

Peter stood on the north side of the fighting ring, with Isaac and Erika behind him. Boyd stood to the east, with Moira, Derek, and Stiles. Before the fight began, Moira place a pair of runed cuffs on Stiles’ wrists to prevent him from lending any magical assistance, and then checked over both Laura and Peter for hidden items, either magical or mundane. She forced Laura to part with a protection charm that Peter recognized as having belonged to Talia—not that it had done his sister much good.

Finally Moira stepped outside the circle and cast a ward around it, which would drop only when one of them uttered words of surrender. “Remember, beta-shifts only are permitted, and no weapons other than teeth or claws.”

Peter and Laura nodded their agreement before shifting and readying themselves for the fight.

Peter’s betas and Stiles all shouted words of encouragement, the young mage kept his impartial. He smirked at his niece, who growled, her eyes already flashing red as they circled one another. That was good; his strategy relied on making her lose control. She’d always been a strong fighter, but not a patient or careful one. That was Peter’s advantage. That, and being the one who trained her in the first place.

Laura made the first move, growling impatiently as she charged him straight-on, swiping her claws across his torso. He dodged out of the way easily and stepped backward, smirking.

“You always were a coward, Uncle. I was surprised you had the balls to challenge me for your little pet,” she mocked, ignoring Stiles’ indignant ‘hey!’ from the sidelines.

“The fact that you think of him as a pet tells me all I need to know about your leadership skills, dear niece. The Hale pack deserves a better Alpha.”

He grinned as her face shifted further, and she charged him again. This time, instead of dodging, he grasped her arm and used her own momentum to flip her over his shoulder. Erika’s sharp bark of laughter rang out as he danced away. “Come on, I taught you better than that.”

She growled in response as she flipped back onto her feet, but this time she circled him more warily before feinting towards his left arm and gouging into his right shoulder instead. He leaned back just in time to keep the wounds shallow, but the scent of blood hit the air, making her nostrils flare. That was the real reason he allowed her to wound him; from the reports he’d gathered it seemed she had troubling keeping her blood-lust in check. Hopefully it would encourage her recklessness.

He darted in while she was still off-balance and swept her legs out from under her, landing a hard kick to her ribs before he backed out of range. She didn’t even pause before scrambling to her feet. Bloodlust might make her less cautious, but the adrenaline would also lend her strength.

It was time to make a move. He dived in low, then popped up at the last second and drove the full length of his claws into the meat of her right shoulder. As he withdrew them, he grabbed her right arm and flipped her again, this time throwing himself on top of her as she landed and bending her arm back until something snapped.

Before he could ask for her surrender, she kicked her legs underneath her and threw him off. Her arm dangled uselessly at her side, and her expression was full of rage, nothing human left in her Alpha-red eyes. She roared so loudly Peter had to stop himself from flinching, and charged him again. He failed to dodge this time and she knocked him to the ground, but he managed to recover quickly enough to turn the fall into a roll, breaking her other arm in the process.

He knelt on her back, careful not to give her any leverage, and panted out, “Do you surrender?”

She growled and thrashed for a while before slumping into the dirt. She turned her head as much as she could to look at him. Her eyes were human again, tired and defeated. “I surrender.”

“Laura Hale has surrendered,” Moira announced formally, and Peter felt the wards drop around them. He got to his feet, dusting off his hands, and immediately turned to Stiles.

“You did it!” his Emissary shouted, grinning.

“I’m insulted you would doubt—” Peter broke off as an earth-shattering roar sounded behind him. Stiles’ triumph expression turned to alarm. A high-pitched shriek pierced the air just as Laura’s body slammed into him, and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, did you think I was going to let you go without a cliffhanger this time?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a really short chapter, but the wrap-up is going to be long and smutty, and I didn't want to leave you hanging that long. Enjoy!

Peter regained consciousness to the sound of worried chirping in his left ear and low chanting in his right. He lay with his eyes closed for a few moments, trying to assess the situation. He was face-down on the grass, and shirtless, judging by the faint breeze brushing his skin. His back stung, but the pain was fading as someone gently smoothed salve onto it.

Satisfied that his current position wasn’t life-threatening, he cracked an eyelid. Waffles’ wild-eyed stare greeted him. She immediately began to bounce around like a possessed dust bunny, chirping excitedly. A long-fingered hand scooped her up, and Stiles’ face replaced her.

“Goddammit Peter, you stupid asshole,” he said angrily. “What on earth were you thinking, turning your back on a half-mad Alpha? You’re lucky Waffles was there to save you from getting your ribs torn out.”

Peter managed to make his answering grunt incredulous.

“It’s true,” Erica said from somewhere above him. Her voice trembled with suppressed laughter. “She shrieked loud enough to break all our eardrums, and then started dive-bombing Laura’s head. It’s a good thing for her that Moira knocked Laura out before Waffles could peck out an eye.”

Waffles warbled happily, pleased at the recognition. There was a fluttering sound and Peter felt her tiny claws grip his hair as she settled on the back of his head.

“I need you to stay still for a few minutes while you heal,” Stiles said, waving his salve-smeared fingers in Peter’s face, and then winked. “Guess all that healing practice paid off.”

“And since you’re a captive audience, we can tell you all about what happened after you ignored one of the first rules of fighting,” Erica informed him cheerfully.

Stiles and Erica took turns relaying what happened after his niece’s surrender, with Boyd interjecting here and there when they got off-track. It seemed that Stiles’ words to Peter had enraged Laura, who shifted to full wolf form and leapt on him from behind. Stiles was still bound from doing magic, but the wards had dropped, so Waffles swooped in and began dive-bombing the wolf. This was both help and hindrance; it distracted Laura from eviscerating him, but also got in the way of Moira’s spellcasting. Eventually the former Emissary managed to knock the Alpha out, and she lay in the middle of the circle, bound and unconscious, surrounded by wards.

“What’s going to happen to her now?” Peter asked, sitting up gingerly.

Moira was sitting cross-legged a few feet away, looking as calm as if she’d been giving a lecture rather than taking down a mad Alpha.  “I’ve already contacted the nearest Council-approved facility. It’s an asylum called Albion Hills, run by the Disciples of Judas. She’ll be placed there after the Council strips her of her Alpha powers for breaking the rules of engagement.”

“So she’ll be rehabilitated?” Stiles said. That was one of the Disciples’ primary missions; even in the non-supernatural world many hospitals and prisons had Disciples of Judas on their staff, whether they knew it or not.

“One hopes,” Moira said crisply, unfolding herself.

Derek, who had remained strangely silent through all of this, stood as well. “Thank you so much for your help, Mentor Harper. I don’t know what we would have done without it.”

Stiles sputtered.

“Her…help?” Peter said slowly.

His nephew nodded. “I reached out to the Council about a year ago, and they said they couldn’t help without actionable evidence. Moira contacted me shortly after and offered to intervene, indirectly. She was the one who suggested I talk to you and Stiles, and figured out a way to bring me to New York.”

Peter’s mind reeled as he sorted through all his previous interactions with Stiles’ mentor. He could see now how they might have been designed to challenge, rather than discourage, him. How she’d gotten his back up, so that his first instinct would be to fight for his mate rather than find a diplomatic solution.

Moira smiled at him serenely, her green eyes glinting. “As I told you, Peter — I only want what’s best for Stiles. And clearly, that is the Alpha willing to place his own life at risk for his Emissary’s happiness.”

He slumped backward, resting his head in Stiles’ lap. Waffles stared down at him with round yellow eyes, and he fought a burst of hysterical laughter. “Clearly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in the Disciples of Judas, they will have a cameo in "You Should Know Where I'm Coming From" as well as some upcoming original work of mine.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, not quite the end yet. I have at least one good sex scene to go... Not sure if I will show them arriving in Beacon Hills or leave it off as they depart NY. Thoughts?

Laura’s trial was grim. Her brief spell of unconsciousness hadn’t improved her mental state, and she had to be restrained and partially sedated for the proceedings. Even so, she nearly broke free as Derek took the stand against her, shouting at the top of her lungs that he was a traitor to her and their dead mother. Derek was pale and shaking by the time he finished his testimony, and Stiles clapped a supportive hand on his shoulder when he came to stand next to his new alpha and emissary.

In the end, the verdict reached was exactly what Moira had predicted. Laura was judged mentally unstable, to be relegated to omega status and remanded to the care of the Disciples of Judas until such time as they deemed her fit to re-enter society.

Her agitation grew as Peter stepped forward for the transfer of territory, and to Stiles’ surprise a woman pushed through the crowd and waved away Laura’s guards. She laid a hand on the werewolf’s shoulder—Stiles was surprised it wasn’t immediately bitten off—and whispered something in Laura’s ear. Whatever she said certainly had its effect; the crazed alpha grew still and pale.

“Thank you, Confessor,” Moira acknowledged the woman. Stiles shuddered. He’d learned about the Disciples during his training. They were an ancient sect, who believed that Judas had been Jesus’s most faithful disciple, willing to bear the blackest sin to help fulfill prophecy. They pursued two missions with fanatical devotion: the Defenders and Confessors advocated for and rehabilitated criminals and the violently insane, while the Lances ruthlessly hunted down and eliminated inhuman threats. Werewolves and other shifters had fallen into the latter category for the first few centuries A.D., until it was decided that because they had souls, they would be considered provisionally human.

There were whispers, however, that that consideration only stretched so far. The Disciples were the stuff of nightmares for much of the supernatural community, and Stiles had heard enough of their powers to be wary.

He refocused his attention as Moira began the transfer. His part in the ceremony was fairly passive. He could feel the bonds of Laura’s former betas attaching to the web that connected Peter, Stiles, and their pack, and he sent a small surge of welcome and reassurance down the new connections. Derek had called to warn the Beacon Hills pack of what was going to happen. Stiles was relieved to feel no hostility from their new betas, only some anxiety and, in a few cases, relief.

By the time it was over, Derek had regained some of his color. It was probably a huge relief not to feel Laura’s rage and madness echoing down the pack bond. Stiles could only image the level of stress her pack had lived with since her defeat—probably even before it.

They filed out of the hall in silence. The Council would strip Laura of her alpha power, and the Disciples would take her away. It was all over.

 

Derek had a flight back to California the next morning, and Peter had to give instructions to his New York betas on packing up the shop, so Stiles decided to take Derek out to celebrate, or commiserate, whichever seemed more appropriate.

Derek was a bit somber as they ensconced themselves in a tiny Japanese noodle shop run by a pair of kitsune, but he lightened up a bit around his third cup of wolfsbane-laced saki.

“I’m really glad your pack is willing to pick up everything and move with you. They must be very loyal,” he commented over an enormous bowl of ramen.

“I think he was a little surprised, to be honest. As much as he can be an arrogant asshole, I don’t think he realizes how much we really care about him,” Stiles said.

Derek nodded. “I think a lot of the arrogance is a defense, really. He was always the black sheep of the family, even when he was Talia’s protector.” He paused to pour them both more saki, then continued, “Mom relied on him a lot to do her dirty work, but she also looked down on him for it. She was very invested in her reputation as an Upstanding Alpha, and she constantly held Uncle Peter up as an example of what not to do. Laura totally bought into it; she idolized Talia, thought she was perfect, and pushed herself to be exactly like her. I think that’s what drove her so crazy when Mom died and Peter went away. Because it’s not actually possible to lead a pack effectively the way Mom did without someone like Peter scheming behind the scenes.”

“I think the reverse is probably true, too. Peter’s a good alpha, but we don’t really have a territory to manage here. I think he’ll need your straightforward approach to balance him out in Beacon Hills.”

The werewolf flushed a little and busied himself for a minute with his noodles. “Peter and I used to be close, you know,” he said finally. “I thought he was so cool, and he was genuinely affectionate with me in a way that Mom wasn’t, especially after my dad died. He tried to teach me a little, too—politics and things as well as fighting—but my brain just doesn’t work the same way. I’m better at brawling than planning, and I’ve never been persuasive the way he is.”

“Tell me about it,” Stiles snorted. “I’ve seen him negotiate. He actually made a guy cry once, he drove such a hard bargain for his family’s grimoire.”

They chatted well into the evening, until Mariko ushered them out onto the streets. By the time he parted ways with Derek, Stiles felt he had a different perspective on his new alpha—and, if all went well, mate.

 

The rest of the New York pack were slouched on the two remaining chairs in the shop, or sat on the floor leaning against boxes. The remains of several pizzas and at least three six-packs of wolfsbane beer were scattered about, but it looked like they’d earned it.  Stiles threaded his way carefully through the maze of cardboard to join Peter, who was leaning against the counter, surveying his pack with pride.

“Hello, Alpha,” he purred, nuzzling into Peter’s neck. The werewolf wrapped his arms around Stiles and breathed him in.

“Finally,” Peter growled. “I thought maybe you and my nephew had gone back to Beacon Hills without me.”

“After all the trouble we just went to? I wouldn’t dream of leaving your side.”

“The trouble _you_ went to? I was the one with my ass on the line, as I recall,” his alpha grumbled.

Stiles reached around to grope the ass in question. “Yes, and then I healed you when you went and made a mistake a half-trained pup knows better than to make.”

Peter pulled back a few inches and narrowed his eyes at Stiles. “You’ve been my emissary less than a day, and you’re already insubordinate.”

“If you wanted an obedient emissary, you should have paid more attention to Karen at the gala,” Stiles scoffed. “Although, I’m not technically your emissary yet, I could always give you her number…” He felt claws prick through his shirt and shivered.

“ _Mine,”_ Peter growled. “No more games. In fact—Erica, did you leave my tattooing machine out like I asked you to?”

“In your office, Alpha!” she called back in between bites of pizza. “Have fun, and don’t forget we have to hit the road by ten tomorrow!”

“Mmm, I don’t know if that’s enough time,” Stiles murmured into his alpha’s ear. “We’ll have to make it count.”

“We will.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we've reached the last chapter! It took me a while to polish this up; I've had a lot of work to do, and I couldn't seem to get it quite right. Thanks for your patience. :)

Stiles shed his shirt and settled into Peter’s tattooing chair eagerly. He’d been waiting for this day ever since the first morning he woke up in the werewolf’s bed. There was never any doubt for him that Peter was his alpha. Now it would be official.

Of course, he also hoped to add a mating mark and tattoo in the future, but that could wait. They no longer had to worry about forming a bond, and that was really the important part. Everything else was just a formality. It would make a good celebration to share with their new pack members—a joining of mates to complement the joining of packs.

For the moment he was content to watch the flex of Peter’s ass as he bent to prepare the ink and test the machine. It was an amazing ass, he reflected. Well worth saving.

Peter finished his prep work and approached Stiles with the transfer in hand. “Where do you want it?” he asked. He rolled his eyes at Stiles’ suggestive leer. “The _tattoo,_ ridiculous boy. There’ll be plenty of time for that after.”

“Finally,” Stiles sighed. “Right here, I think. I want everyone to see whose pack I belong to.” He indicated the inside of his right arm, near the wrist, exactly the same spot as Peter’s.

He watched as Peter applied the transfer, admiring the symbol. He’d laid his family’s pack symbol, a triskele, in blue over his own black spiral.

“What do you think?” Peter asked quietly.

“It’s beautiful,” Stiles said honestly. “It’s like coming home.”

 

Neither of them bothered to hide their reactions as Peter started tattooing. The alpha’s nostrils flared as the scent of their combined arousal filled the enclosed space, and his eyes glowed bright red. It took all of Stiles’ self-control to keep still, and not to palm his erection with his free hand. He wanted to save everything for Peter.

The long, firm lines of the tattoo gun sent bolts of heat through him. He watched in fascination as the blood welled up from his skin and mixed with the ink. It felt like Peter was pushing his own energy into Stiles’ body every time the needles pierced him. He let a broken moan break the buzzing silence, which his alpha answered with a long, low growl.

“It’s a good thing this is, ah, simple. I don’t think I could last through anything more,” Stiles panted when Peter paused to wipe away the blood, revealing the flowing lines beneath.

Peter smirked. “I’m not even sure you’re going to last through this, at the rate you’re going.”

Stiles stuck out his tongue, only to nearly bite it off a second later in an effort to keep from bucking his hips as the wolf started tattooing again.

“Almost done, sweetheart,” his alpha purred at him. “And then I’ll take you upstairs so we can bond properly.”

Stiles was breathless. He could feel the magic flowing into his skin, connecting him even more strongly to his new pack, tethering him to Peter, whose presence was hot and demanding at the back of his mind. When the final line was inked into place, the energy flared, and Stiles howled as he came.

Peter cleaned and dressed the tattoo while Stiles recovered from his orgasm. “It’s a good thing I wasn’t planning on taking this with us,” he said as Stiles sat up and surveyed the mess he’d made.

“I did warn you about this kind of thing the first time you tattooed me,” Stiles pointed out.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

Their progress upstairs was less frantic this time, but much more intimate. Peter guided Stiles into the apartment with a hand on the small of his back. It was almost completely empty. The bed itself had been disassembled, leaving only a mattress on the floor. Stiles was briefly disappointed—the bedframe had its uses—until an idea struck him.

“You didn’t pack the toy box yet, did you?” he asked as Peter began reverently stripping him of his clothes.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “I certainly wasn’t going to entrust it to Erica,” he scoffed. “What do you want out of it?”

Stiles hummed thoughtfully. “I’d like to try out those cuffs I made. Grab the gag, too, while you’re in there.”

“Anything else?”

“Just your natural gifts.” He grinned, tracing the outline of Peter’s fangs, which were already beginning to drop in anticipation.  He removed his jeans, underwear, and socks while Peter fetched the toys. His blood was thrumming with anticipation; for the first time, they’d be able to have sex without holding anything back or worrying about the consequences. Also, he was looking forward to trying out his invention.

Peter returned quickly, and shirtless. Stiles took a moment to admire the lines of his muscles, accentuated by the curving of his tattoos. One of these days he was going to take hours mapping them all out. Right now, he made grabby hands for the cuffs. Peter tossed them over with a chuckle, before starting to undo his pants.

The cuffs were smooth, cool metal, not quite two inches wide and large enough to slip over his hands easily. They had no attachments for ropes or other restraints, and no visible latching mechanism. He slipped them on and said, “ _Cau._ ”

Immediately the cuffs shrank and molded themselves comfortably, but securely, to his wrists. Next he laid back on the mattress, making sure that he was positioned in a way that wouldn’t become a problem later on. He stretched his arms over his head, leaving them a little slack to account for the distance to the floor, and spoke again: _“Twrm.”_

His wrists thudded to the floor, suddenly many times heavier. He twisted and tugged against the restraints and found to his satisfaction that he couldn’t move them at all.  Peter placed a red ball in one of Stiles hands and held out the bit-gag with a questioning look. Stiles nodded. “You remember the word to open them?” he asked.

“Yes,” Peter told him. “You sure you’re comfortable?”

“Yep, they’re perfect.” He grinned. “Excellent craftsmanship, if I do say so myself.”

Peter snorted lightly and then leaned over to fasten the gag around Stiles’ head. Stiles bit down experimentally, and then tried to talk. “Mfph ith goo.”

“It’s frightening that I’ve watched you talk through mouthfuls of curly fries often enough to understand that.”

Stiles really wished he could stick out his tongue, but settled for an eyeroll and a petulant lift of his chin. The heavy weight of the cuffs around his wrists anchored him, even as they left him totally exposed and vulnerable in front of the wolf.

Completely naked now, Peter sat back on his heels and eyed his lover speculatively. A shiver of excitement went through Stiles’ body as his alpha’s eyes briefly flashed red and Peter’s fangs began to peek out from between his lips. He reached out with a claw and traced the fresh tattoo on the inside of Stiles’ arm. The look on his face was half possessive and half awed.

“You’re finally mine,” he said. Stiles wiggled his hips and batted his eyelashes, trying to bring his lover back to the point.

Peter snorted. “Whatever shall I do with you?” His grin turned wicked as he scooted forward and rested more of his weight on Stiles’ upper thighs. The feeling of helplessness as he was pinned completely was intoxicating. Peter’s hard cock brushed against his, and Stiles gave a muffled moan. “I think I’ll start by marking my territory.”

He flicked all his claws out dramatically, and Stiles felt his cock twitch. This was one of his favorite parts of being mated to a werewolf. He loved the physicality of Peter’s instincts, the primal mix of blood, sweat, and come that marked their bond. He let his eyes close as his alpha’s claw trailed down his chest, snagging on a nipple ring in passing, like a spark from a coal. When the tip finally broke his skin, just below his sternum, he couldn’t help the arch of his back as he rose to greet the sting. He strained his senses to smell that coppery tang of blood, wishing he could be flooded with it the way Peter was.

A low rumble started in his mate’s chest as a second claw joined the first, drawing patterns of crimson over his pale skin. Stiles knew that if he opened his eyes he’d see Peter’s glowing red. But his entire being was focused on the sharp lines being carved into his body, tiny beads and trickles of his life force spilling out. He was dimly aware of his muffled moaning through the gag, but it seemed faraway and unimportant.

“Love the way you open up for me,” Peter growled. “From that very first night, unfolding yourself so beautifully under my hands.”

Stiles opened his eyes, finally realizing that the alpha was tracing his lines of power with his claws. He could feel his magic welling up with the beads of blood, every part of him straining towards Peter like a flower growing toward the sun. His cock pulsed and throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and his eyes watered with the intensity of his emotions: arousal, worship, adoration.

When Peter’s claw finally brushed the slit of his cock, he came with a muffled scream. He magic surged, and he was dimly aware of Peter following him, choking off his own cry as he splattered Stiles’ unmarked thighs with come.

“ _Agored,_ ” Peter intoned, and the cuffs fell open around Stiles’ wrists. Next he reached around and unfastened the bit gag, tossing it to the side.

Stiles moved his newly freed hands to Peter’s back automatically and pulled him down to rest beside him on the mattress while they caught their breath. He curled up against Peter’s body for warmth, ignoring for the moment the tacky smear of blood and come between them. There would be time for a shower when he could feel his limbs again.

Eventually he peeled himself away, reluctantly, leaning on his elbow as Peter stretched and started to sit up with a groan. “So, tomorrow we both go home and start rebuilding your family’s pack. You think we’re up to the task?”

Peter growled and kissed his mate so deeply he almost forgot what he’d asked. “Together, I think we’re up to anything.”


End file.
